Syzygy
by Sabine Strohem-Moss
Summary: Pure HG. Ginny, unwilling bridesmaid, is finishing off Fleur's wedding invites, when the wedding guest closest to her heart stumbles in. What's left to say between them?


**This is chock-full of HBP spoilers.** **You've been warned**.

Bill and Fleur had done unbelievably well, considering the wards on the Burrow, the trauma of the last months, and the high-level security the event called for. The lawn was a sight to behold--fuschia orchids and white roses were strewn everywhere, and dazzling trellises, chrome ornaments, and numerous bells hissed into the breeze. A faint 'here comes the bride' could even be heard in every corner of the Burrow, which had become what Ron liked to call 'Wedding Headquarters'.

Members of the order, as well as numerous French relatives (who were frisked repeatedly by the twins on 'Order duty', who earned themselves the titles of 'Zose paranoid red'eads!') were perpetually flitting in and out through the floo, the front door seemed to be always swinging, and there was a six-foot-long list of '_things to do_' tacked onto the back door. Excited, rushed adults were running about, carrying the _Prophet_'s latest obituaries in one hand, the latest copy of the wedding invitation in the other.

Ginny and Hermione, informed by Fleur that they, unfortunately, were to be two of her bridesmaids ('only because your bruzzer asked') were both looking irate as they stuffed invitation upon invitation into creamy envelopes. Both were obviously strained--Ginny's hair was in a sloppy ponytail, a bright strand toppling out every so often, and Hermione's crinkles under her eyes had returned from third year.

"If I gave myself a paper cut, could I plead injury and spend a sick day in, god forbid, my _bed, sleeping_?" Ginny mused aloud, sealing the envelope fiercely with a swish of her wand. It had been discovered that, amidst the hordes of 'of age' wands being flicked within the Burrow, coupled with the wards, there was no need to worry about the Underage Magic laws, so both witches could use their wands for the task.

Unfortunately, they had yet to discover a way to magic the addresses on, and they could magically envelope only one invite at a time, so they switched between writing, stamping, and enveloping.

Needless to say, if Ginny saw the flowery, inky declaration of '_You are cordially invited to Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour's Wedding_' she would hurl a quick _incendio_ at the entire stack. As of now, it was hard to resist.

"Don't you dare," Hermione said vehemently, "There is _no way_ I am finishing these on my own. How do they even _know_ this many 'safe' people, anyway?"

Ginny shook her head, wondering the same thing. She sighed, and tugged on the strap of her flimsy, canary-yellow tank top, pulling it over her shoulder, to give her weary fingers something to do besides the chore at hand.

Footsteps grew louder as they approached the kitchen--Ginny and Hermione had set up 'Operation: Evil Envelope' at the kitchen table, whose rusty legs creaked ominously under the heap of paper--and finally, Ginny, recognizing Ron's heavy footfalls, glanced up, thumbing her silver earrings.

But it wasn't just Ron. Oh, no. It was Ron and his best mate, the Boy-who-refused-to-look-at-Ginny. A terse, thick silence hung between them all, and Ginny's breath caught in her throat as she looked at the two. Or rather, at _him_.

It had been decided, after much debate, that Ron and Hermione would take turns accompanying Harry at the Dursleys until he arrived a week before the wedding--both staying might shatter the already thin truce with Harry's relatives, and this way they were able to aid in the wedding, somewhat assuage the adults (Mrs. Weasley especially) and keep up on both worlds.

Ginny had known he was returning today. She'd been told two weeks ago. But she had forgotten, or, more truthfully, refused to remember. Refused to allow herself to dread, to hope, to imagine the inevitable encounter that would occur.

Sharing a meaningful glance, Ron and Hermione made whispered excuses, and easily exited the kitchen, Hermione giving Ginny's wrist a comforting squeeze before she left.

Ginny didn't notice. Her gaze was on Harry. Did he look different? Yes. Yes, he did. But he was not defeated, not broken, as Ginny had feared he might be. No, he radiated the firm determination Ginny hoped to mirror herself. His dark shock of locks were as wild as ever, and his scar peeked out from beneath them. And finally, unable to feign interest in the moldy tiles, Harry's eyes met hers.

She gasped softly. Raw emotion raged within that solid gaze, and she could feel it channel between them, lust and suffocating regret and good intention. She rose gracefully, soundlessly, without thinking about it.

He watched her, entranced. All the apologies, rationale he had revised and recited nightly were gone.

They were out of words. The thick arguments erupted mutely between them, dangling in the air. But there was nothing to be said--it had all been said, in front of the tomb, that fateful, horrific day.

And so Ginny abandoned words and reasoning, and simply wrapped her arms around Harry, her fingertips burning against his spine, and she looked up at him. Those mournful, intoxicating green eyes were digging through her intentions, wondering, confused, wishing.

And she pressed her lips to his in the softest, faintest of gossamer kisses. But it didn't matter--she had conveyed every word, every stirring of her heart into that kiss, and he too, had poured such unadulterated, desperate emotion to her, Ginny shut her eyes for a moment, reveling in the intensity between them.

Later, she would wonder why she hadn't thought, '_will it last_?', why there was no insecurity there, no flurry of anxiety between them. But the trust, the adoration that flowed from his elbows to her toes, bursting through any semblance of rational thought, dismissed any such ideas.

His noble retreat from her, Dumbledore's tomb, the pearly pools of tears, her shaky speech, it became static, as her entire being whirred into a new thought: it was her and him, Ginny and Harry, and for that moment, that perfect reunion, they were free from the burdens of the war, fusing and drawn like sugary moths, to one another.

For, despite their concerns and the shackles of the war, the pending final battle, they were there for a swift moment. There and only there.

Within the minute, a fretful Ron and Hermione would oh-so-subtly glimpse through the screen door, a shrill Fleur would fling open that door so hard it ricocheted, only to announce that she had chosen a newer, prettier design for her invitations, and Fred would 'happen' to walk by and knock over the swaying tower of stamps.

But the fraction of the second would rest, warm and endearing, in the back of Ginny and Harry's memories, for they had felt that rare, once-in-a-lifetime bliss, had fallen into perfect harmony for a moment.

A/N: _ Please, please_ review. An 'I read it' would be amazing. I know, the last half of the story was basically the same thing, over and over. Should this become multi-chaptered, and, dare I say it, _with a huge plot_? Originally it began at the White Tomb, with Blaise Zabini and a frog, but then this came to me…


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